


Te Amo Sin Saber Cómo, Ni Cuándo, Ni De Dónde

by tasteofhysteria



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe- Post Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofhysteria/pseuds/tasteofhysteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myths of peace and slow sunny days without the constant cloud cover of ash hanging in the reddened sky. The sun still broke through in Napoli sometimes. Days like that were cherished and remembered always. (Post-apocalypse AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Te Amo Sin Saber Cómo, Ni Cuándo, Ni De Dónde

The window was always open to let in the morning breeze, weather permitting. But this city was hardly the open sea, so the salt-scented gusts of wind that blew gently in always contained the overtones of smog and fish. Still, he found he preferred waking up in the tiny Napoli loft to a less-than-fresh draft of air. It was nice to have solid ground under your feet.   
  
This morning started out a little differently than normal. Rather than being woken up by the piercing whistle of the early-morning ferry passing under the window and three stories down, he was startled out of sleep by loud swearing and someone clambering over him to tumble forward onto the wooden floor.  
  
“Shit—goddamnit, I’m going to be fucking late! Move, you bastard!”  
  
“Lovi, buenos dias…” he yawned, ignoring the new bruise to his ribs as he pulled the disrupted comforter back over his bare shoulders. “You slept in today…”  
  
“No shit! The goddamned ferry is late.” Lovino shot the window and seaside scenery a filthy look as he rifled through the clothes abandoned on the floor the night before, searching for his uniform’s trousers. They were located quickly and tossed onto the ironing board with a muffled swear as the Italian crossed the room in three strides to the (charmingly) antiquated old wardrobe. He muttered darkly, words that could either be curses or poetry as he dug through the creaky drawers for a rare pair of matching socks. He picked up the ancient iron’s plug with his toes and attached it into the outlet with the ease of much practice. Lovino continued with low-voiced complaints as he sat down on the bed to pull on his socks, back pressed against the ribs he had injured a few moments before. The other curled around him, arms slipping around a slim waist to hold the Italian in place.  
  
“I don’t know why you always say you’re late. You wake up two hours too early to get ready. How are you always late, querido?”  
  
“It’s not my fucking fault,” Lovino grumbled. He pulled on his left sock and grimaced at it, noting how the heel was going threadbare. “I have to walk to work and all the bastards in the market stop me and try to tell me all their fucking woes. I’m a goddamned police officer, not a fucking psychiatrist!”   
  
“Sí sí, but isn’t that your job? To help people?”  
  
Lovino shot him  _A Look_  as he tugged on his shirt and did up the buttons quickly.   
  
“My job is help them by arresting the fuckers that start shit, not listen to them whine about that harmless  _‘delinquent Gianni down the way’_  or whatever.” Lovino wrinkled his nose and huffed, pulling on his other sock and pretending to ignore the hold around his middle.  
  
“Ay pues…you only say that because you like Gianni. You used to be such a delinquent yourself, sí?”  
  
Lovino glared down at him, anger made moot by the flush rising high on his cheeks and staining them red.  
  
“Th-that was a long time ago, damn it! I’m a goddamned adult now!” The Italian retorted snappishly, crossing his arms. The Spaniard curved around him hummed soothingly, rubbing small circles on Lovino’s back.  
  
“Well…if that’s the case, querido…could I maybe convince you to join me in some adult behavior?” he asked in an innocent voice. Lovino glanced down at him, back to the still-cool iron, and bit his lip indecisively.  
  
“…you have five minutes to convince me,” he said at last. The Spanish man just laughed and undid the shirt’s buttons with a few deft twists of his fingers.  
  
Roughly 30 minutes later had the Spaniard standing a stream of steaming water, chin tipped down as he gazed at Lovino’s face of absent concentration as the Italian worked a lather of shampoo through sodden chocolate-brown curls.  
  
“If you get shampoo in your eyes, it’s not my fault. Got it?” Lovino murmured as he began to rinse the Spaniard’s hair, his tone lacking bite and actions tender and careful.   
  
Though it had been almost two years together, Lovino’s more gentle side still continued to amaze him. But if Lovi was completely incapable of being soft, he probably wouldn’t be capable of working a job that helped people, despite his complaints. And he probably wouldn’t be able to put up with the spacy man that greeted him in the evenings when he stepped through the door.  
  
But Lovino was very good at hiding this more temperate version of himself under harsh words and a volatile temper. It couldn’t be helped, nor could he be blamed for it when one considered the type of world they lived in now. There were stories of the lost technologies that existed before the War, legends of borders that weren’t constantly contested, being able to travel without fear of being caught by bandits or arrested by brutalizing troupes of Control Officers that enforced their will with violence.   
  
Myths of peace and slow sunny days without the constant cloud cover of ash hanging in the reddened sky.  
  
The sun still broke through in Napoli sometimes. Days like that were cherished and remembered always.  
  
Just like these sorts of mornings.  
  
The curls of brown hair twined around Lovino’s fingers were finally free of soapy residue, so he stood up slightly on his tiptoes to place a light kiss on both closed eyelids.  
  
“Spoiled you long enough, greedy bastard,” he murmured fondly, groping blindly for the shower tap. The warm downpour ceased and the only noise was a quiet dripping from the showerhead and Lovino roughly toweling the two of them dry, embarrassed by his latent show of affection.  
  
Yes, the Spaniard mused, these were the types of moments you had to hang on to. The rough brush of old terrycloth being scrubbed against his skin, muttered Italian in a low voice, the smell of sex tempered by soap and ironing starch, the wood grain of the window shutters through faded white paint.  
  
You had to hold on to these when everything went to hell.


End file.
